


Make the Most of the Time we Have

by theclockiscomplete



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclockiscomplete/pseuds/theclockiscomplete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contents include: morbid gingerbread men, quotes that sound dark out of context, a Santa hat, and Mariah Carey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make the Most of the Time we Have

**Author's Note:**

> Just a one-shot domestic Christmas fluff thing, because I have the feeling that by the time Christmas is here my heart will be too broken to write/post any fluff.

“We’re done. I’m done. This ends right now. You’re a monster.”

Clara arched an eyebrow, contemplating for just a moment the look of mock anguish on the Doctor’s face before squeezing the black tube of icing in the shape of two neat X’s where the gingerbread man’s eyes would be.

“There,” she said. “He’s dead now. No more suffering.” The Doctor gave a grin that could only be described as “wolfish” and stuffed the treat headfirst into his mouth before gathering up three others in various stages of torture and agony and heading for the console room. “Oi!” Clara called, and he turned with a practiced look of innocence on his face, all high eyebrows and eyes. He was getting better with the eyes. “You haven’t decorated your half yet,” Clara said, motioning him back over.

He rolled his eyes and spoke around the gingerbread man wedged in his mouth. “Put the knife down.”

Clara grinned. “Not on your lives. And put this back on.” She swiped the Santa hat off the microwave and reached up to slip it back over the silver curls.

“It itches,” the Doctor complained. “And besides, we _met_ Santa,” he added, and just like that there was a definite drop in the mood of the room. In the background, Mariah Carey continued singing at the top of her lungs as though determined to compensate for the memories flickering behind those blue eyes. Abruptly, The Doctor bit down on the neck of the gingerbread man, swallowed, and put its body on the pile with the others. “Bit of a morbid tradition you humans have,” he said. “Makin’ effigies of each other to eat.”

Clara smiled sadly and brushed a few stray crumbs from the side of the Doctor’s mouth, relishing the way the Doctor leaned into her touch these days. “Not everyone decorates them like I do, Doctor.” She contemplated the shade of green icing beside her, added a bit more white, and slathered the pale result on another body. “I think it’s worse when they’re decorated all nice and pretty,” she said. “Like they don’t know what’s coming. And then they have those stupid smiles the whole time you’re eating them. Like that one,” she said, and broke into a smile that mirrored the one growing over his features.

The Doctor lifted one of the pile in his hands. “Is that why this poor fellow is missing a part of his brain?”

“Nah,” Clara said, turning back to the cabinet with a chuckle. “I just got hungry.”

“Ah.” He picked up the headless gingerbread man and gnawed thoughtfully on its arm. He was tall enough that the top of his Santa hat brushed the tinsel hanging around the kitchen and caused the fairy lights intertwined with the strands to shift and sparkle all over the kitchen. Clara was in the process of carefully sawing a leg off of another gingerbread man when he was suddenly all around her, arms wrapped around her shoulders and his head heavy on hers. Clara reached up and covered his hand with her own, lacing the fingers together and breathing in the scent of his hoodie. “For the record,” he murmured into her hair, “this is the best Christmas I’ve had in 900 years. Well,” he amended a moment later. “Except for last Christmas. Gettin’ to run away with you is pretty hard to beat.”

He shifted his head a little, and the pompom at the end of his hat flopped forward and bopped gently against Clara’s nose.  She giggled and swatted at it. “Ready to decorate the tree yet?”

He groaned into her hair. “Couldn’t I distract you somehow?”

Clara laughed. “You don’t have the guts, Doctor. I do the distracting.”

She felt him smile against her hair. “You certainly do,” he agreed.

“I’m waiting.” She was smiling too, now.

He sighed. “Can I at least take the hat off?”

Clara turned around so that they were face to face, her hands on his chest and his arms draped over her shoulders. She tilted her head and looked him over. “I could be persuaded,” she conceded.

“Name your price.” His voice was low, and Clara’s skin prickled under the cable-knit jumper. Slowly, gently, she gripped the lapels of his hoodie and tugged him down until they were centimeters from each other.

“I want…” Clara whispered, and she felt his breathing hitch just a little, could feel his hearts under her hands. She stood on tiptoe so that her lips were even with his ear. “I want you to untangle the lights.” She leaned back in his arms and openly smirked up at the look on his face; it was the expression of someone who had just been completely flummoxed, he was sure, but needed a moment to figure out how. A moment passed, and when his features morphed into confusion Clara laughed outright.

“I thought you were going to kiss me,” he said, blinking. Then with a twitch of his lips, “thank God for small favors.” He had only a moment to process the look that crossed Clara’s face, and then she was on him, swallowing the laugh that was bubbling in his throat and clinging to him fiercely and the world was his hands on her back, supporting her, and her hands in his hair (there went the hat, speaking of small favors) and the taste of baked gingerbread on the both of their lips. 

When they finally came up for air, Clara cast an irritated glance at the speaker on her kitchen countertop, which was now crooning something about Blue Christmases...on Artishe. “Doctor,” she panted, “is that your album or mine?”

The Doctor considered, then dropped a kiss on her nose. “Let’s go untangle the lights.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't planned on writing any more for the actual series, but a fan theory rejuvenated my interest in the show and now it is easier to write.


End file.
